by Dana Marton
Not that the house in Jardim Botâanico lacked anything. At fifteen thousand square feet—not including staff quarters—it held every imaginable luxury, including a spa with a sauna and live-in masseuse. The grounds featured an elaborate pool, an equally impressive pond with a twenty-foot waterfall, and a small forest of palm trees.
By the time Eduardo and his wife arrived at the residence, the party was in full swing, the guest list a testament to Raul Morais’s wealth. The politicians came to angle for campaign contributions. The business owners came for access to the politicians. The singers and actors had been invited to lend an extra layer of glamour to the evening, and eagerly accepted. Movies needed investors. Musicians too always needed backers. The strands of connections wove through the crowd, creating the fabric of money.
Eduardo set his wife loose and went to find the old hyena. Must greet him first. The king would want his due. And he always got what he wanted.
Raul Morais stood near the elaborate parrot enclosure, surrounded by politicians who courted his favor. The stroke he’d suffered four years ago had left its mark on his once-powerful body. He listed slightly to the left, and he’d grown thinner. Yet without doubt, he was the most powerful man present. His eyes were the same bottomless black, his gaze sharper than a machete.
As Eduardo joined the group, his father nodded at him. “Excuse me, gentlemen, I need a word with my son.”
They were, of course, all smiles, patting Eduardo on the shoulder, dear-boy this and dear-boy that.
Eduardo followed his father into the house, into his mahogany-paneled study.
“Marcos,” the old man said to one of the staff, and the guy hurried off to fetch the older son.
Joaquim, the butler-bodyguard, stayed with them. He’d done a stint with the 1o Batalhão de Forças Especiais, the 1st Special Forces Battalion, the rough equivalent of the US Delta Force. He was at least two meters tall and over a hundred kilograms, dark skin, close-cropped hair, square jaw, kind of a horse face. He looked like a death machine and was incredibly loyal.
“A drink, senhor?” Joaquim asked Eduardo.
“No, thanks.” He’d best keep his wits about him.
Marcos walked in with a full glass already in hand.
“Father.” Then he shot a what’s-this-about look at Eduardo with “Brother.”
Joaquim poured the old man some cachaça, a Brazilian liquor made from actual sugarcane juice—unlike its poor stepbrother, rum, made from the leftovers of the main sugar removal process. The glass replenished, Joaquim stepped back into the corner. He did his best to blend into the furniture, but he was about as invisible as a water buffalo at the ballet.
Raul Morais sank into the leather chair behind his ornate mahogany desk that sat in front of equally ornate matching bookshelves. The entire study had been bought from the castle of some Portuguese nobleman, in the north of Brazil.
Looking at Raul Morais now, nobody would guess that he was a son of the favelas, the miserable slums of Rio. Or that his father had been one of the soldados da borracha, “rubber soldiers,” men who’d been taken to the Amazon during World War II to produce rubber. Some said a hundred thousand men had been taken into the rain forest, some said more. Few made it home. Eduardo’s grandfather had been one of the survivors—the toughest of the tough.
His son had taken after him.
By the time Raul Morais was sixteen, he’d thieved, prostituted to rich tourists—both male and female—and killed, in self-defense. By the time he was eighteen, he’d fallen love with a girl, Maria, who’d done all the same things to survive. When, a year later, one of their favela’s famed gangs had beaten Maria to death for poaching on their territory, Raul killed again. This time in a hot fury that left three gang members dead.
To escape being hunted down, Raul had gone as far as he could from Rio, two thousand miles, up to the Amazon his father had escaped, then up the Rio Negro, up the Içana, and joined a small logging operation.
“Back when I started,” he said now, “going into the rain forest and coming out with whatever you found was still legal. You cut it out—it was yours. You dug it out of the ground—you got to keep it. Not that I ever found anything. Rumors would fly about gold in one river or the other, but I never had any luck with that. I stuck to logging.”
Eduardo exchanged a look with Marcos and leaned against the richly carved column behind him. Sounded like they were in for some serious reminiscing. The old hyena got like this from time to time, usually a precursor to lecturing his sons. First the tale of his long, arduous rise to riches, then his disappointment with his useless sons, who weren’t fit to follow in his footsteps.
“Living off logging was as miserable as living in the favelas, except even harder work,” the old man said with a pointed look. “Back then, loggers worked with mules instead of heavy machinery. Between the snakes, the bugs that carried disease, and the frequent accidents…” He shook his head.
His hard gaze pinned Marcos first for an uncomfortable moment, before moving to Eduardo. “I’ve done all the hard work. And now it’s your turn to prove to me that you are worthy of taking over the empire I created from nothing. Do either of you have something to tell me?”
Eduardo and Marcos wouldn’t look at each other. Eduardo hoped Marcos would say something. Marcos was probably waiting for him.
The old man’s tone carried a warning as he said, “There isn’t much time left.”
No, there wasn’t. Less than a year. Barely six months, in fact.
It’d been nearly a decade ago that Raul Morais had laid down his ultimatum. He’d paid for his sons’ educations, then after college—which had taken them a number of extra years to complete due to a shared tendency to get distracted—he’d given each a million dollars to start out. Eduardo had been twenty-nine. Marcos had been thirty.
The deal had been whichever of them turned their starting capital into enough money to be able to purchase just two percent of Morais Timber within the next ten years would inherit the entire business.
But if neither of them succeeded, the business was going to the old man’s younger brother, their only uncle.
Raul Morais put down his glass. “I didn’t build Morais Timber to leave it to useless sons who’ll run it into the ground after me. You are going to need to prove that you can handle a business. And that you can handle it honestly.”
He let a weighty pause hang in the air before he finally went on. “I did all the dirty work. I did whatever I had to. I have reached as high as I can. But my sons can reach higher. A senator or president. Your dealings must be impeccable.”
“We are running an honest business, Father,” Marcos pointed out, speaking through gritted teeth.
The old hyena snorted with derision. “A worthless little security outfit. It’s not the scale I’m looking for.” He fixed them with an unforgiving look. “Can either of you come up with the money I require before I can consider letting go of the reins?”
“Yes, Father,” Marcos said.
And Eduardo added, “I certainly will.”
They would, somehow, together.
No time for another grand scheme. Which meant they had to go back to one of their failed schemes and somehow fix it.
Raul Morais dismissed his sons with a wave.
They walked out together but didn’t talk. The servants always listened.
The brothers communicated with looks. They’d always been able to do that, had grown up as close as if they’d been twins. They’d always shared everything growing up. And they continued the practice into adulthood, sharing money, drugs, even, on occasion, a woman.
The old man had thought his challenge would make strong, honest men out of them. He thought competition would make each try harder. He’d pitted them against each other. Only one could inherit. The old hyena would not split his empire.
They, however, hated being in competition against each other, so right at the beginning, they agreed to work together. Their chances of coming up wi
th enough money together were a lot greater than doing so separately. Then one of them would take the money to their father, receive the entire business, and share with the other brother at that point. There’d be nothing the old man could do but hiss and spit.
Diamond mining was big business in Brazil. They’d begun there. They’d invested everything.
Within two years, the small mine they’d financed—along with a number of other investors—went under, taking most of their money with it. They’d gained nothing but experience, a fair grasp of the industry. They’d learned, for example, that mines invested most heavily in equipment and in security. The labor itself was cheap.
The Morais brothers hadn’t had enough capital left to get into equipment manufacturing. But they had enough—once they’d borrowed from all their friends with promises of immense returns as soon as they had Morais Timber—to start a company that specialized in mining security.
Getting into that side of the business was a whole new kind of education. The men in their employ were mercenaries who administered the law of the jungle: you stole from a mine, you died.
Surrounded by tough men, having tough men like that answer to them, Marcos and Eduardo began to feel tougher themselves. They were the lords of life and death. After years of prep schools and colleges and all the usual rich-boy pursuits, they felt like real men at last. After partying aimlessly through Rio during their twenties, now, in their thirties, finally, they began to feel like true macho men.
They spent most of their time on location, at the mines, with their mercenaries. They grew stronger, rougher. Their grandfather’s survivor genes and their father’s favela blood prevailed. The brothers took to the work of intimidation and violence like caiman to water. Began providing security for other industries.
The business was actually turning a profit. But not fast enough. They had to accept that they were not going to have the capital they needed from honest work.
So they’d stolen what they needed. But then, infuriatingly, it’d been stolen from them.
While they’d been tracking the foreign thief four years ago, the old hyena had had a stroke, and they’d thought all their problems would be solved.
Once their father was dead, the brothers would simply contest the will. But the old man had pulled through. And his security was tighter than an anaconda’s asshole. Impossible to have him killed.
“Morais Timber goes to us,” Marcos said under his breath once they reached the other side of the pool, where party guests were a little thinner on the ground.
Eduardo nodded. “We have six months left. I say we throw everything we have at finding the thief’s little friends.”
The American and the whore.
Somebody had to know where they went.
Chapter Eight
Carmen
“Should we take her down?” Carmen looked at her daughter sleeping peacefully in the crib at long last after an endless, fussy night.
The full humidity of the rain forest filled the room, while city sounds—cars, busses, shouting vendors—filtered in from outside.
Phil cast a bleary-eyed look of disbelief from across their small room at See-Love-Aid’s Manaus facility for abandoned girls. “Do. Not. Wake her up.”
Carmen checked the crib, the mattress covered with a snug sheet, the baby sprawled on top. The room was too warm for a blanket. A mosquito net hung from a hook in the ceiling, tied to the corners of the crib. No way could it cover the baby’s face.
“All right,” she said. “I’ll just go and grab something and bring it up. You can stay down, if you want.”
Phil yawned, then pushed his fingers through hair that no longer stood up in spikes. He’d begun thinning on top. And still as sexy as ever, Carmen thought.
“I’m going to park myself next to the coffeepot and stick by it until it’s empty,” he said as he shuffled out of the room, scratching a fresh bug bite on the back of his arm.
Carmen followed behind him, leaving the door open a crack.
Heather was coming down the hallway—a petite brunette wearing a sarong made of a colorful local print—balancing two plates of eggs in one hand, two coffees in the other. Heather and Hannah, sisters from Oregon, were part of the permanent staff. They shared a room two doors down from Carmen and Phil.
“Lila is sleeping,” Carmen told the woman. “Would you mind keeping an ear open for her?”
Heather smiled. “You go have breakfast. If that precious little girl fusses, I’ll pick her up. It’s a treat. You want me to sit with her?”
“You go have breakfast with Hannah. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
She felt comfortable leaving Lila with Heather. Other volunteers were in their rooms too. Carmen knew that if Lila cried, half a dozen people would jump to make sure the baby was okay.
Lila was See-Aid-Love’s first baby in residence. All the staff, the volunteers, and even the girls they took care of, were in love with her and spoiled her rotten. When the baby wasn’t napping, she was passed from hand to hand and cooed to, sung to, rocked, danced with.
Carmen followed Phil down to the cafeteria, a sprawling room filled with tables and chairs, breakfast passed out through a window that connected the space to the kitchen. Carmen accepted a plate with thanks, then grabbed a cup of coffee.
Out back, girls were having a basketball game, from the sounds of it. The pat, pat, pat of the ball filtered in, along with the occasional wild cheering. They must all be out there; the cafeteria held only adults: most of the permanent staff and all the volunteers who weren’t upstairs.
But then some girls did come in, four of them, carrying a small sisal mat and heading straight for Carmen and Phil.
Rafaela, Gabriela, Camila, and Luiza. Carmen had been memorizing the names. They wore Salvation Army T-shirts decorated with the logos of US sports teams, and looked like typical American high school kids. Except their noses were not in fancy phones.
“For Baby Lila.” The oldest girl, Camila, presented Carmen with the mat, woven in intricate patterns, a jungle scene with lianas and birds.
“Oh wow. This is so beautiful.” The design’s lines were all exact and tightly woven, not something Carmen could do in a million years. “You guys are real artists. I’m going to hang this above the crib.”
The girls looked at each other and giggled.
“It’s not a picture,” Luiza said with the exaggerated patience teenagers had for adults. “It’s a changing mat for the baby.”
“No way. It’s way too nice to mess up. I’m going to treasure this. Thank you, girls.”
Since Carmen had her hands full with breakfast, Phil took the mat. “I’ll bring it up in a minute.”
They both thanked the girls again, then Carmen headed up, listening for Lila as she plodded up the stairs. So far, so good. The baby wasn’t screaming.
The hallway too, when Carmen reached it, was quiet.
She walked into their room silently, not wanting to wake her daughter, hoping to eat her breakfast in peace.
The crib stood empty. Oh well, Lila had woken up, then. Maybe that wasn’t a bad thing. If she stayed awake during the day, she might sleep a little more tonight.
Carmen put her breakfast on the nightstand, cast the plate a last longing look, then headed to Hannah and Heather’s room. Their door stood open a crack. Carmen knocked and peeked in.
The sisters were both reading the local paper, drinking coffee. Heather glanced up. “She didn’t fuss.”
And since they didn’t have Lila, Carmen asked, “Do you know who took her?”
Heather frowned. “No. Not us. She didn’t make a single noise. We’ve been listening.”
Carmen went from room to room. Some stood empty, others had people getting ready for the day. No Lila. Nobody had heard her cry or seen her.
Maybe she’d fussed and someone had taken her down to the cafeteria to find Mommy and Daddy. Carmen went back down. She’d bring the baby back up so at least Phil could eat in peace.
> But Phil was sitting at the end of the table with a handful of other volunteers, no baby. He looked a little perkier. He was probably on his second cup of coffee.
“What is it?” he asked as Carmen headed for him.
“I can’t find Lila. Have you seen her?”
He shook his head. “I’m sure somebody has her.”
“Not upstairs.” And not in the cafeteria. The place was half-empty now, easy to scan at a glance.
Carmen’s heart began to race.
Phil stood. “Let’s check the rest of downstairs.”
They searched, just the two of them at first, then the staff helped, then the girls. They checked every inch of the building.
Nobody had the baby.
Chapter Nine
Ian
In Washington, DC, Ian headed to Karin Kovacs’s office—his boss at the Civilian Personnel Recovery Unit, a new department at the DOD that dealt with recovering US citizens who’d gone missing abroad. He was back from nine weeks in Jordan and was about to be assigned a new case. He wondered where he was going next.
Maybe Brazil.
Four years ago, when he’d come back to DC with Daniela, returning to work as a bouncer at a bar wasn’t an option. He’d quit drinking. And he’d needed a paycheck that could support two people. CPRU seemed perfect. When he’d been hired, he asked to be considered for any Brazilian assignments. He wanted to get back down there, wanted to take another look at Finch’s murder.
He hadn’t given up on that. He hadn’t told Daniela, but he was working the case through the Internet and phone calls. The cell phone dropped by one of the men who’d attacked him and Daniela in Santana hadn’t panned out—a burner phone—but Ian was moving heaven and earth to find another clue. The bastard who’d taken out Finch was a dead bastard; he just didn’t know it yet.
But maybe he’d find out sooner rather than later. Fingers crossed for a Brazilian case.
Ian knocked on his boss’s office door, then opened it and stared at the woman sitting across the desk from Karin.
